i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?

one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..

spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face*

peanut butter
more than tar on the road
peanut butter
with my naan and my rice
lay it on the noodles
and peanut butter with tofu
don’t forget a dollop
with the curry too


good pasta and pizzas
become better
soaked in peanut butter
Ye Olde English Sandwich
flames like a dragon
fixed with half a bottle
of the New World Inca paste

*spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face

i was directed to this place by Marty Feldman, and he said i should say this password to gain entry: float like a chapati, sting like a vindaloo.

i' not good at making passes at someone's death,
just yesterday i was thinking
while a quiz show took place with haiku clues
regarding famous people, so i wondered
aloud: would it still be the correct answer if
you said: cassius clay? what a cool name,
colossus of clay - what the hell does Muhammad
and Ali have to do with african rooting
when you hardly speak Swahili? a bit pointless,
but a name like cassius clay... unstoppable -
already mythological, rather than a family
feud between Ali and the Caliphs after Muhammad's
death - maybe he should have confirmed his
baptism as Muhammad Ali with a confirmation
akin to catholic practice and added a surname, like
Khadijah, well... if Mozart is turning in his coffin
for his music being turned into a muzak
or a Porcupine Tree tree song, then the first wife of
Muhammad is turning in hers... a wise women
of sound economic acumen could be compared
by secular standards to Gabriel's voice, women tell lies,
just today i saw plain Jane turn into a stunner,
she was gagging to go on a date with a guy of her dreams,
by media standards a subsequent loser in Morocco,
at a photo shoot of practising flirtation a half-and-half
love affair between the Gothic island of the Caribbean
that's England and the Bahamas flirted with olive skin,
blue eyes and pecks, and an ego shaped like a woodpecker...
or an u.z.i., poor guy, got to make a show,
but the ***** is out! she noticed her eyes!
what further shahada of scheherazade?
just one more night, just one more night, one more, night.
demigods and men, traces of narcissus in man resides
in his eyes, nowhere else, man and woman fall in love
with their eyes, rather than narcissus and the complete
visage, but as i once said: imagine narcissus looking
into the sea - he might as well have fallen in love with
the stillness of the lake rather than the image represented
by it - across the seven seas he roamed, across the seven
zeniths, until he came across the Lake of Echo,
and heard the echo of footsteps beside him, to have seen
the natural mirror by moonlight, and settled to lie,
disguising himself as a flower worth recycling:
each god in polytheism his own individual, reigning ideal
in the pantheon of gods: solipsism - with man's intervention
a notably study of, himself.
although i'd love to chat thoroughly about this,
i'm not so sure i want to - hear the words:
you're a good man... you're a good man in a brothel?
you think a ******* would forget saying that
and continue? *persona incognito grata -
a golden crown on her tooth that i peered into with her
Ukrainian accent speaking polish, i lost my virginity
to a French girl without any connection - proceeding
from the way she decided a child learning a new language
aged 8 could not be considered a native speaker
for a psychology experiment - i gave her a silent lesson
in history concerning Napoleon and the last heroic act
of warfare, after that, civilians were utilised like bombs
or rifles, the many guilts after all the killing seized.
anyway, today i decided to cook two knock-outs...
the first was intended as a kolhapuri chicken curry,
the latter was chicken do'h pyaaza, with the later
the title, indeed the fenugreek incident, fenugreek
being a concentrated version of kasoori methi,
if the Turks invented hot & sour with a pickled chilli,
the blue Indians invented a whole palette of sour and hot
with this dish, and the crucial ingredient that's
fenugreek - although the crystalline form of this spice
is more potent - the recipe asked for one tablespoon
of the raw products, the leaves (kasoori methi) -
i added a teaspoon of the concentrated stuff -
what a disaster! i asked for two tasters to tell me that i
wasn't tasting bitterness in the gravy as if i added some
English ale revenge against continental beers...
because the excess of the component of intended sourness
of the fenugreek turned into an ale-like bitterness -
hence the notion that sour isn't an antonym of sweet,
but bitter is - hence sweet & sour rather than
sweet & bitter - you can have a turkish pickled chilli
and still have a compliment on the palette of hot & sour,
but imagine tasting bitterness - excess of concentrated
kasoori methi does the trick - and since Faust doesn't
have an Igor like Dr. Frankenstein, he turned himself
into a hunchback, and started picking out most of the
fenugreek crystals from the gravy, one by one, ony by one,
hunched over the sauces - until the bitterness disappeared
and the intended sourness came through -
it took a while, but Faust as his own assistant kept on
saying: stop lying, stop lying! i want to eat this sauce too!
that's the thing with chemistry and cooking,
i received a present not too long ago, an arsenal
of spices, which means i can punch-bag you a Peshwari
naan with raisin and almond stuffing (a bit of sugar too),
and i can add the raw ingredients - i'm richer with
spices than with drugs or gold: turmeric is also known
as saffron - although saffron is more potent,
turmeric does the same job... coriander powder, cumin
power (also seeds), mint the prime garnish for
do'h pyazza curry... garam masala made from scratch,
meaning i have: cardamom pods, cloves, black cardamom,
mace... and i can make you a kohlapur masala...
honestly... in this great culinary babylon of english society,
from pizzas to chinese to Kentucky to New York
street vendors... i'd give up the cuisine i was born in
and convert to India's palette... i don't need to convert
anything else... religion can remain with those who
barely read, or who read and cite only one book...
let them have it... i don't care...
i already converted to a non-religious fascination with
mystical Judaism (sorry Allah, couldn't do anything
with your name, it didn't fit the Latin revision of thinking
about it), and as such, converted to a dreamy everyday
of India's culinary prowess - Kama Sutra is nothing
compared to the recipes from Kashmir or anywhere
where the blue bloods fascinated the merchants rather than
scalped them in berserker rage among the puritan
envoys.

yay jo haal hoa sare- shaam hi,
siyah dasht -o- garibaan hoa,
Mjhay hasil naan tha jo kamal bhe,
Wo bay-sabab shikasta -o -jaan hoa..
aay rahbar -e-zindagi, yay kaisi taveel tar raat hai,
Naan amaan mili, naan hi koe imtihaan hoa!!
Wo jo pamaal kar gay meray khwab ko,
us hashar-e- jaan ka kia samaan hoa;
Yunheen gard main liptay bujhay khayal,
Shahr say jaanay ka yun ihtimaam hoa!
Yay rang nhn saraab hain,yay ehsaas say door paar hain,
Meray bayrabt say tootay pyaar main,Jo hoa tou bass yunheen hoa!!

Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.

When my uncle came home from the war
he brought seven bags of naan
two pounds of butter and a piece of
shrapnel buried in his stomach

Cook he commanded
Butter the naans, heat
their skin on the stove
until they’re scorched

until they scream for release.
Cut them into a million
pieces and scatter them
Along Victory Avenue.

Once Noakhali’s valiant champion
Who scarfed 100 fuchkas  
With their blood sauce streaming
is now unable to eat

His stomach is a paunch
Growling with rotting screams
pulled fingernails and broken
bones, fragmented stories

muhabbat ka faham jana tou dil ro para
yay kaisa ilm hai kay jiss raah gya wahan shor para

yay dekho kon hai saaqi jo chala aa raha hai khaali hath
naan mayy hai naan masti, naan may kadday ka shoor para

zamana saaz tha, par sakoot main raha umar bhar
magar roze hashar yay kuen aur kaisa shaur para

aur phir jab dill tota, aur ishq ki baazi haar gya
wo shaksh murjha gya aur hanstay hanstay phir ro para

I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.

Give me a Coca Cola party number 1
And boot conservos up the ***
All they care is their 4 bedroom house yeah mate yeah
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 2
As we watch the singer do the boogaloo and then we crack open that bottle and spray it on
Their uncle oh how cool
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 3
Simon finally puts up the Christmas tree
First he puts the tinsel and then the bells and an angel to go on top ph yeseree
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 5
After those 5 cokes I feel alive
I jump up and down to every song I heard on the radio
Nice and high
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 6
The nice Coca Cola will give me
A nice sugar fix
As I slam it down, it goes through my body
Yeah if also rots my teeth
Give me a Coca Cola party number 7
Coke is so bad for you I want to send if to oblivion
But the more I see santa or Sydney swans or the big Coke truck red and white is the key
Give me a Coca Cola party number 8
Instead of roast dinners I prefer Cola lollies on my plate
You see as I ate each one
I sank into a garlic naan
The lollies gave it a sweet taste
Give me a Coca Cola party number 9
I would take my Coke and walk around the party introducing myself saying hi, my name is Brian and I told one man I hate the liberal party
Cause they don't like the poor
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 10
While doing your tapestry you have your 2 litre Coke near you like your one of the real men
But people say cokes a kids drink and I say to you this
****** oathe I am a cool kid
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 11
If you keep drinking that stuff
You'll end up in heaven
But not in a good way
You will be with tony Grieg
And Norman may
How cools that
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 12
Have a few quite cokes with santa and his elves
After Christmas Day
When they load all the presents into the sleigh
Party party party
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 13
If the Coca Cola party was a kid
He would be finally in his teens
But he will say to his uncle
Have I got the muscle
To enjoy drinking Coke oh yeah
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 14
Every kid was nice to people
But me mate I was really naughty
So santa gave me no presents
And scounged around my house for money
To buy a nice 2 litre bottle
Of Coke
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 15
When I go for a run I feel tired
And a bit sweaty
The Coke slows me down mate
Please don't lose your entire
Top row mate stop drinking Coke
Merry Christmas Coke lovers
Past and present

frying plantains in Tanzania
with rice - so much rice
ageing postmen with bus passes and metal knees
carrying keisters of it
a thousand different ways

slow walkers
married, always
frittering away chances or just
connected,
with the mortal coils of the market?

big coat on in the Kalahari

your scorpions absent from the guest list,
exiled.
the brown bears caged, but should things have
really.
come to this?

fierce heat.
fizzing geysers rumpled by grey fluorescent lights and
plagued,
by the speeding steam trains of their past that took them to
SO MANY GREAT PLACES but they only recall the
endings.
the crashing off the tracks,
the unexpected landslides

revolve
navigate the ridge and don’t funk from looking down.
it is better this way.

stamp the scorpions in.
£5 on the door.

take the free round and dance around their nimbus because even though you WILL NEVER
know them,
you would NOT
BE HERE.
without them.

your corner patch
a feral patch given over to woodworms and weeds
but a patch without chains,
shaded by roses suffering a kind of pressure you will never understand.

the naan breads arrived 40 minutes early and ruined your bath but
WHAT
A
PRIZE.

to exist in a rainforest where naan breads are possible.
and ferns unfurl,
then hang,
and rise again.

frying plantains in Tanzania
slow married women bearing grain

carry your cactuses out into the sun.
feed them.
watch them.

be naked with your scorpions and really feel the
football finals
the canal gates
the shooting stars, zooming by
through the windows of the train.

everyone has them
their ***** underwear,
their skeletons in
the closet...
      i too have mine,
well, one in particular...
and it goes like this:

- somerset (not cornish)
           camembert cheese
- a dash of cinnamon
- honey
- butter
- on toasted tandoor
           baked naan bread...

   come on! it's cheese!
it's not exactly a comparison between
a ferrari and a porsche!
it's cheese! cheese!

i don't even know whether to call
it a dessert or a starter...

why am i being pedantic
           about the cheese?
cornish camembert is harder
than its somerset cousin...
   and naan bread?
  you really expect me to like
the putrid dough of an english slice
of toast?!           *******!
they just discovered sour-dough...
i'm not toasting this load of
    pigeon droppings, moulded
into something resembling
a decent slice of chew...

how many times do i have to say this,
i would not eat in a restaurant
where the chef smoked marijuana...
   as i wouldn't trust a skinny chef...
you need palette numbing additives
to explore,
   alcohol for the carousel lottery
of ingredients...
   and a charred tongue from smoking
cigarettes...
   i'm trying to figure out
how french toast came about though...
the recipe was passed down
to me from the film
    kramer vs. kramer...
     i haven't dared to explore the classic
further.

every time i cook,
i think of being an inquisitor of
anorexia...
            last time i heard,
anorexia was like *******...
well... something akin to eating
through your nose...
            imagine an inquisition
of anorexia, far away from spain,
and then, start cooking -
i'll say, that's better on
the imagination than
the christ metaphor of bread
and wine...
            just imagine an anorexic
strapped into a chair
while you start cooking
spaghetti bolognese (e.g.)...
    if i see an iron maiden, i'll tell you...
it'll probably be the chattering
jaw of the anorexic
   telling me in tongues:
            feed the pigs this ****!

the day's almost finished and i'm sitting with a glass
of a whiskey and pepsi: sharpshooter...
   what's a sharpshooter? three parts whiskey
one part pepsi... that's called a sharpshooter...
by that i mean: the alcohol will not creep up on me
esp. like they serve it in bars... three parts pepsi
one part whiskey... no: better the whiskey be apparent...

and i'm rereading my first encounter with
Charles Bukowski: i remember the first time i came
across him... i was having a psychotic meltdown
back in 2007... running up and down Glasgow in
the sun... i don't know what was more mad:
me or the weather in Glasgow... usually western
Scotland is bound to perpetual rain...
                 but it was sunny that day...
                   well... i don't know how many trips
i made between London, Edinburgh and Glasgow...
running aimlessly: most probably from my shadow,
whether it was that day or the other
i booked a hotel room... i ran out of it after about
5 minutes in panic mode... leaving everything
behind, except for my wallet which i had in my trousers,
but my passport? i don't know why i had
it on me... i only got it back from the Glasgow police
station after a year or so...
                      long story: bad memories...

but i remember that first encounter with Bukowski...
what matters most is how well you walk
through the fire: in the bookshop i stood there in awe....
because the first poem i read was,
oddly enough insanity

    sometimes there's a crazy one in the street.
    he lifts his feet carefully as he walks.
    he ponders the mystery of his own ****...

    ...sometimes there's a crazy one walking in the street.
       he slips past with a black crowd on this shoulder

obviously i had to buy that book...
back then i was buying books like mad...
i bought that book and the Brothers Karamazov...
oddly enough: i have read it...
to be frank i'm starting to suspect that i'm
pretty well read - but that doesn't surprise me:
after all, reading saved my sanity...
as much as insanity was "fun" i wanted to return
to structures...

            it's not much fun compulsively thinking
about the "secret" meaning of car registration
plates... i'm serious: in my head it was THAT bad
at one point... my entire world view disintegrated
into... a large **** on a pile of spaghetti Bolognese
looks better...

          obviously i'm... sure... i'd recommend going
mad... lucky for me: i wasn't taking to any mental hospital...
maybe that's why i was so introverted for
most of my 20s... hell... i lost all my youth to psychosis...
not all my youth: the youth where you could have
all the ****** fun... but from what i heard:
most men haven't had that sort of luxury...
   what with the advent of social media and dating apps...

but that's the great thing about marijuana (skunk,
it's different in England, the marijuana is illegal
and it's usually spiced with some ****** chemicals)
                                                       psychosis...

at first: oh my god, the greatest drug... i stopped drinking...
i waited for the weekend to smoke...
   i'd sit and write Beatnik ******* poetry...
listen to music... when the stuff was good...
a minute turned into ten minutes...
   ten minutes turned into thirty minutes...
thirty minutes turned into two hours...
literally: time stopped... that's how i came up with
the antonym of Descartes' res cogitans...
   i smoked and i lost my ego...
                it was nowhere to be found...
ergo? res vanus... an empty thing...
              i think it takes a lot of thinking to finally
conquer thought per se...
              to able to merely sense without that cloudy
overlay of thought / narrative has its bonuses...
right now? i have a clog in my head...
before i could tell you something akin to:
i can hear myself think...
    "hear": i was so engrossed in something resembling
solipsism... thought came before the senses...
that's why i missed so many opportunities
with women...

            also: i remember this remark i made...
i remember saying: i can't hear silence...
         guess what's in my head?
                that exact remark... it's almost as if i have
lost my prior "sense" of a soul...
i think i'm soulless... i think my soul has already
left my body... which makes it easier
to coordinate the body... i have this great silence
in my head...

   a moment also came when my vision sharpened...
i started seeing more clearly...

another thing about going mad early on...
oh i did see psychiatrists... i was put on antipsychotic
medication... i used to weigh in 78kg at one point...
6ft2 and 78kg? i was a lean colt...
i put on... over the years... let's say i weighed in
at 120kg at one point...
                   i might have drank back then...
i'm still drinking... but: to think that this sort of medication
doesn't have a metabolic effect would be delusional...

but like i must have already mentioned:
that's the good thing about going mad early on in life,
or rather with madness itself:
you can't go mad twice...
         what's that famous saying?
those whom the gods want to destroy: first drive them
mad...

   about 6 psychiatrists tried to figure me out...
one ******* tried to implant in me the idea of regression:
he insinuated that i was abused as a child...
false memory implants... sadistic little Indian ******...
why do i bring ethnicity into the equation?
oh... reminded of a novel by Will Self...
no: not the quantitative theory of insanity...
   that other one... Dr. Mukti...

                            they couldn't figure me out
yet they still prescribed this ****** medication...
           the medication was making it worse...
                             alcohol? makes it better...
       well... because by the 5th and 6th nutty-professor
i was already well verse in Nietzsche,
Kierkegaard, Heidegger and by the 6th Kant!
why would i need to talk **** over?
   none of them could help me with:
    oh you know, herr doktor... i encountered
a choir in a church that descended, invisible...
then... while in a panic... running around in the church
a great wind descended and dispersed the choir...
well... **** me... if marijuana can give you that
sort of auditory hallucinations:
     i'll wait until i'm dementia prone...
    then i'll go to Amsterdam and jack-up my brain
with some mushrooms... maybe i'll see "things" better...

come to think of it... back in the day it was what
it was... i was in so much distress but internalized it so well
that: i was 12 shadows behind a flimsy veneer...
but i pulled through: right now i think i have:
esp. since my reclusion sort of gave me a spring-like-elasticity...
i jumped back into extroversion with a snap
of the fingers... i was never an extrovert-extrovert:
those annoying *****...
i've learned to be more measured...

  but i pulled through: and not thanks to anyone
except for me... and... necromancy...
which is not some magic... just reading the works
of the people already dead...
    
another saying: music soothes even the savage beast...
tell that to one of my Maine *****...
go on... play her some punk... she's doing a runner...
she is a savage beast... domesticated...
but still savage...
     only recently she scratched the face of a baby...
the baby was: the baby of my mother's manicurist /
pedicurist...
    why did she scratch the baby's face?
     my mother's manicurist / pedicurist brought her
friend along... who in turn brought her son along...
annoying little ****: i was fermenting upstairs in bed
with a massive hang-over... just heard the annoying little
****...
                  
      ADHD+... literally...
            he kept annoying my cat... kept touching her too
"offensively"... she hissed... she started spitting evil eyes...
but he kept on annoying her...
   my mother apparently told him to stop...
the boy's mother stopped being a mother at that point...
he ****** off somewhere to draw, i don't know...
******* circles in the air... when the baby approached...
bam! scratches on the face...
    mind you: no problems prior... babies and animals
mingle quiet well... they did... i was there some other
times... but... all it takes is one silly little **** of a boy
to **** of a cat for the cat to rebel... like a predator...
on something that's weaker: weakest...
     it's a ******* cat... a bonsai tiger...
        
           that's why i never understood man's fascination
with predators, animal predators...
seems like their life just might be interesting...
translate that to predators within men...
            eh... blue oyster cult... something sort of eerie
itch by itch by the end it just becomes disgusting...
no argument: when it comes to the behaviour of cats...
the cat was in the right...
      the cat was in the right... the baby was simply collateral
damage: isn't that the common phrase in modern
warfare? collateral damage?

while Tony Blaire et al. are the ADHD+ **** of a boy
walking away scot free...
            
well... i gave the mother mother's manicurist so many
CDs to copy after i introduced her to Wooden Shjips...
she obviously has a new manicurist...
her friend was supposedly into Viking looking blokes...
but... i've recently saw a brutally honest
video by a woman, she admits to:
having nothing to offer a man... except for ***...
she's a single mum... all the women in my vicinity
are single mothers...

       and she's right... i work... i cook... i clean...
i can iron a shirt... blah blah... if i'm going to be second
best after she panders to her Rugrats...
what am i left with?
   it so much simpler with prostitutes...
although... the one i'm currently seeing sort of crossed
the mark... i think she's fallen for me...
she keeps sending me Selfies while i keep sending her
pictures of trees... flowers... cats... sunrises
and sunsets...

if i were to be stuck with someone like a Denise Royle...
oh **** that... ****: THAT...
     because i would be just that...
a push-over a comb-over...
        recently i watched a movie starring Lara Flynn Boyle...
a film from back in 2002...
   recent pictures? either Jack Nicholson
is the Spartan 300... i don't know...
                    i'm going to grace: if i get to old age...
probably less stressed out...
         like this one ****** i saw today...
the petulant husband... chocolates for the children,
wine for the honey-dubby-dubby-gum-bear...
he might: just get a sniff of the wine...
otherwise! WHIP!
              back on overtime come tomorrow's
Bank Holiday! ha-chi! whimp 'em boy!

existentialism never got along with Darwinism...
for what? my genes?! what about my "soul"?!
i rather find that than pass on some biological fuss
of a glue... someone else will pass something else
on... it's not like the human species will go extinct
because i haven't capitulated to reproductive
"needs"... being a grandfather with grandchildren
or... an old man and death's darling: euthanasia...
always the latter...
god bless the Benelux alliance: reasonable people...
benevolent people... sensible creatures...

****... i knew this was going to happen once i got stuck
into defrosting... "defrosting":
i was trying to get some ice for a whiskey pepsi
sharpshooter refill... a block of ice... no ice cubes...
take out the ice cube container hack at the block
of ice with a knife... fiddly procedure...
take some ice... put the excess ice on the shelf...
hello cleaned ice-cube container...

            i have lost the plot... i digressed too much...
i take it from my English teacher...
a Thomas Bunce... Glaswegian... loved his jazz and his
poetry... he always digressed...
he never taught us... not grammar: only on a must...
once... maybe twice... what did he used to call Shakespeare?
Shaky? Shaken Pear?
   he always digressed... he just told stories...
he wasn't a teacher... you might as well have
lit a ******* fire in the classroom and we'd all huddle
and listen to him ramble...

i've lost it... the day is almost over and i'm sitting
here drinking a whiskey and listening to...
my new found "hobby"... i.e. gothic post punk alternative
darkwave music... rubric!

i've always tried to escape the dichotomy of
the Cure vs. Depeche Mode...

the soft moon... oh... that band is a banger...
2013 release: from the album the soft moon...
songs like: circles,
                     parallels, we are we,
                                            sewer sickness...

there's still so much good music "floating" about...
it's just... so much harder to find...
it wasn't... back in 2016 when the internet still had
some sanity about it...

rubric! where's my rubric?!

the downward path - more than i should
give my remains to broadway - dumpster baby
c z a r i n a - wonderland
morosinthe - nihilism
love of consolation - memory
man + machine & emke - room to cry
ill humans - dramatica
dechakhal - always die
              ciern - the emperor rx
     grey gallows - chains
                       locust revival - no funeral
               two one six - heat
                   the isolators - concentrate on us
                house of breath - make sense of it all
q-7 three times - t-3
                       into her final sleep - heressence...

**** me, now that i come to think of it...
every single shift i worked at Fulham's Craven Cottage
whenever i was placed in Bishop's Park
with a women... i wasn't working...
i was on a first date...
we talked about each other...
Jeminah was the best... even though she kept
talking about her failed relationships...
but we walked into the cemetery and inspect the dates
on graves... my god... she looked so ****
back before she stabbed herself in the back
with rumours about me...

while... in my full view... started swiping left?
right? which one is rejection?
in front of me, indicating: you have no chance
mate... i have these many options... loser...
any of the others make their own wine?
bake? make dogs affectionate enough to lick
your wounds till you bleed and not feel
the pain?
               just saying: ******* pie in the sky!
mash potatoes floating in the lake...

what was i going to write?
   ****... i almost forgot... the day is almost over...
18 minute past midnight... time for closure...
i'm sitting with a whiskey + pepsi sharpshooter...
listening to some underground music...
thinking about trimming my ***** hair
because i need to see Khedra... girl's feeling anxious...

oh... right... i woke up nice an early... 8am...
looked at my phone... ****... no ingress pass for West Ham
vs. Arsenal... what's up?
so i text the manager... where's my ingress pass?
i'm pretty sure that i've booked myself in for this event...

text back... you haven't booked in, mate...

oh crap... crap and no crap: to be honest...
if i haven't booked in... i can't be late...
but i swear i booked in for this match...
the original date was the 28th of May...
that date was moved because West Ham progressed
in the Europa League... so Tuesday was them vs.
Frankfurt... i thought that if i booked in for
the original date of the match-up for the derby
i'd be automatically booked in for today...

while i worked Oxford on the 28th...
   it's not like i "forgot": i just wasn't messaged...
about today... ****** ******* diary keeping...
on my behalf? hardly... i woke up ready to shine...
geared up to do the shift...
arbeit macht frei is my new number one motto...
Wembley shifts... ooh... a blessing...
sometimes going above 12 hours... or thereabouts...

can't you squeeze me in?
   just in case someone blows-out?
  
no... sorry mate... can't print your accreditation
on a whim...
  
   but i already texted him saying: i know what NO
means... fair enough...

****... a whole day to myself... what the hell am i going
to do?!
    i ask dearest... what's for dinner?!
roast beef... ugh... not that crap...
no no... i love roast beef... when it's done proper...
done medium rare in the middle...
but...

    i've mentioned this before...
this recipe... it's a Turkish recipe...
i never thought that beef could be so well coupled
with rosemary... eye-opening...
you'd think on lamb goes with rosemary...
no... beef works just as well... if not better...
i guess the use of rosemary is a way to get
rid of lamb stink... why oh why lamb is sacred
to the Nomads while... pork... the most...
scentless meat in town is given so much
critique: didn't "god" create pork?!
why would god despise anything he created?!
it's counter intuitive...
and i once thought that the Welsh were
sheep *******... no... the Arabs and Muslims
in general have that award covered...
ugly... stinking meat...
  sheep... IT... STINKS!

                        at least pork doesn't... LAMB: STINKS!
maybe that's why their cuisine requires so many
spices... they need to drown the stench of lamb...
pork on the other hand? pristine chops...

tried rosemary: made it worse...
but i like rosemary... as much as i like thyme...
thyme and chicken...
but you wouldn't expect beef to be coupled
with beef...

           this recipe though... oh you know...
some Turkish cook... REFIKA...
hammered beef:

400 gr beef fillet steak
4 cloves of garlic, peeled
2 sprigs of rosemary
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
4 tablespoons olive oil
200 gr kolot - mild cheddar is better
2 dried hot chilli peppers
1 tsp of Korean chilly flakes
1 teaspoon black peppercorns (whole)
1 teaspoon sea salt

i woke up and... gaining knowledge that i wasn't
going to do the West Ham shift...
there's much better things to do with a cut of beef
than merely butcher it a second time via
a roast... ugh... roast vegetables and roast
potatoes... such an European "thing"...

wait a tick... i haven't done my 60km+
       bicycles sessions in a while...
                        want to see the Houses of Parliament
on the 1st of May?!
****... why not... via the usual route... past Forest Gate...
past Stratford... down Regents Street...
past Trafalgar Sq.? back past the... it was hide tide...
the Thames is not a river! it's an overstretched lake!
what river has a tide-in and a tide-out?!
it's not a river... unless: all rivers are like this on
an island! the Thames doesn't have a flow!
it... bubbles... it's an irritated piece of water!
it's not a river!

on purpose... i shoved down those black intestines
with barley and bacon and onions for breakfast...
with some rye bread...
ironed some bed sheets, t-shirts and a shirt...
and my work trousers...

it's best to count within the confines of 0s...
after all... a person's wealth is not measured impirically...
British Empire bound...
can you translate 6 billion in... what would be
the weight of geld... back then?

i'm done with post punk alternative music....
i'm coming back to the altar of Germanic Crusader
songs... Palästinalied...
i hear the music... i turn to proud airs..
mein gott: ich auch haben ein gesichichte!

jetzt?! alles ist bergwerk!

i am yet to eat a more łakomą feast!
a more greedy feast!
  
LAMB STINKS... perfect match up between
the Muslims and the Velsh...
perfecto! plush! mush! plush! mhuah!
finger-licking good!

why? why my disapproval?!
some elder ****- spitting on "my" pavement...
i don't like that...
disrespect the road others have to walk on...
sure... perhaprs in Pakistan you have
******* donkeys to grind a road to apply
to your obedience... by the stammer
of a donkey's hoofs...
over here... du brauchen asphalt...
    you goat loving spitting camel jockey
of a ****-...
                                     what?!

tomorrow's tired... let's have it... right now!
you ******* nonces....
you ******* fading chocolate copper-necks...
pseudo-predators...

i woke up with this great feeling of cycling for 60+ kms...
i did...
i stopped like a Dervish taking a brake...
at a shop that sold...
Turkish bread... packaged from...
the AL-BAHIJ bakery... somewhere...
near Wembley...
       it's not Naan ******* curry type of Jaapati
type of ****...
wholesome...
      
   i tell you... 60km+ backwards and forwards...
a meal like this will make you greedy...
beef + rosemary...
there's actually a difference between
freshly ground black pepper and readily
available ground pepper...
crushed rosemary... another "case" to implode...

unser liebe fraue...
    von kalten bronnen...
    bescher uns armen landsknecht...
   eine warme sonnen!

die trommeln! die trommeln!
               lälarm! lälarm! lälarm!

           alles güt, ja? wenn ein ist deutsche...
nein?!
   dann ist: partei-zeit!
        gütfühlen!
       ficken du: Hessen-Schwäbisch:
   schweinefleischislamischliebhaber-seltsam...
like.... wie... du was?"

oh man... that Turkish hammered beef...
with the red onion Sumac salad...
with the Sumac... with the red chilly flakes...
with the rosemary... the garlic...
the sea salt... the fresh real, whole... peppercorns...
U-BOATS man! Zeppelins!
               olive oil... lemon juice... pomegranate molasses!

hmm... i stopped over between Forrest Gate and Ilford
at this Turkish supermarket...
it wasn't the usual take on Lavash bread...
but it wasn't a ***(p)at(t)i either...
    the bakery? Al-Bahij... NW10... Miverva Rd...
  
i'm greedy for this dish... i'm always greedy for this dish...
do 60+km on a bicycle: you too would be...
you too would relax listening to Germanic
war songs...
            because... there's nothing better to listen
to when you're that much pumped up...
         nichtsenglischgesprochen!
nichtsenglischgesprochen!
         zu vergessenheit wir märz mit herz!
mit spatzen zum die nur schar!
                               unser: hohl von diese gräber!

Subah-e-tamaam kay sozo gar
Khoon main nahay apnay lakht-e- jiggar
Aay soz-e-lab-e- baam, kia naghma gungunao gay,
Har roz ik nae tamanna jagao gay?
Unn hasrat bharay dilon main kia kia saaz bajao gay?
Aay saq-e- dil, yun hasraton main jeena bhe kia jeena
Jiss dil main naan koe hasrat , naan koe tamanna!!!
( its urdu language, that is a mother language in Pakistan)

Tameer-ay ulfat say bahter tameer-ay amarat
Aay baa-zoq sajda kar tou dekh kay kar,
Meray pahlo say liptii tere yaad-e-gah
Jumbash-e nam-tar, bay-wuqqat,bay-talab,
Bass ab har taraf niklay jo saaz-gar,
Naan muhabbat talab,naan lutf bar,
Sirf ikk adab,sirf ikk talab,
Iss zamana-e-nasaz ki sirf ikk hawas,
Taamer-ay amarat!!

Nhn aayna- e -saaz main go-mago yay kaifiat
Jaisay burg- o -bahar main ** koe chingari
Jiss kay sholon main bujhay yay dil rakh ki soorat
Jisss kay chahray main jalay angari.....

Main wo zaat hon jiss ka koe shahar nhn
Jo jahan chalay wahan aag lagay
Jiss kay bayan main naan zahar naan amar
Jiss kay wajood main dah-kain sab raaz chupay.....

Nhn asbaab koe, nhn imkaan koe
Mere zaat kay hisaab main nhn jaan koe
Phir bhe toofan-e- azam liay chalti hon
Kay meray dard ki intiha ki nhn intiha koe.......

i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.

In spring morning haze,
out of a red brick council house
window a bothered standing hawk
borrows wide eyed Wonder from a radged lad who reaches upwards
with pudgy hands to grasp
her silver underside and blue head.

Wonder bawls as it arcs in her claws
over grassed over pit heaps of Finished
Work and Help's call centre natter
to a high perch in **** racked ruins of an Old Hall.

Wonder refuses warm carcasses
of mice and voles,
desperate feathered mam returns
with scavenged chips, naan bread and pizza.

In noon summer shimmer
she pushes Wonder to fly,
but it falls out the cup,
grasps stone wall in its drop.

Soon, a cuckoo, Wonder heaves
the other nippers, fat Loneliness and scrawny Grief, or is it scrawny Loneliness
and fat Grief, out their home,
into an autumn mid afternoon
of burnished fallen leaves,

or, bored at mam's twitter
Wonder cannot garner,
breaks its fellow fledglings bones,
ragged Hunger and blistered Wishes,
or is it ragged Wishes and blistered Hunger.

Soon too big for home,
Wonder falls to earth,
and snaps its spine.

Kestrel mam covers Wonder's face
with her wing in winter night
gust, then abandons it
to foxfood and worms.

those dreaded moments from a previous night -

oh, they're there, right at the end of a drinking
session,
out comes the mother tongue -
  and then out comes a superficial interest
in religion -
                i take it for granted -
                   as you have to, have 70cl of
a decent bourbon...
                    and however many times i try to
avoid it: i'm ready for a "boxing" match with
topics i have no interest in, but somehow manage
to write something about them...
   unlike someone who goes out drinking -
and then "pretends" to forget something stupid
from the previous night, having this
moral hangover: by enforcing the rule of not
trying to remember... sadly...
   when you write... you remember...
                           sadly... sadly? well, not really:
you go off into the nether-region of interest -
but you always, always come back the next
day: to what's truly important -
                    in this case? let's just say,
under communism? marx jews etc.?
       you didn't get a two day weekend -
                      everyone worked on saturday;
hence the following ambitious step:

it was going to be a marathon, a ******
mountain to climb,
   but like i was once: america, russia et al.
can have their stock-pile of nukes
   and other military, equipment...
  me? just one example to make,
      arsenal of ingredients to make
                      chettinad chicken curry,
with peshwari naan bread
     + a different chicken curry:
                              seyal-sindhi style...
and there you have your saturday afternoon
made: four hours in the kitchen...
                      i think excluded marinating
the chicken diced and marinated in garlic+ginger
paste with turmeric... hmm...
but the chettinad took the fa-king ****...
    11+ ingredients... 11+! can you imagine
     a pizza with 11 toppings?! i don't think so.
it begins with dry roasting:

   peppercorns, dried red chilies, coriander seeds,
fennel seeds, cumin seeds, a bay leaf,
   curry leaves, poppy seeds, cardamon, cloves,
a cinnamon stick, a star of anise, grated coconut...

and that's just for the paste, which is blitzed
  with just enough water...

then of course the gravy... onions and
chopped tomatoes... onions being friend in...
ooh, ooh la la: coconut oil;
   mind you, you can also rub that oil on
your skin and into your hair when washing it...
so there you go... 2-in-1...
apparently it works better than a conditioner.

ah... but the pershwari...
   almonds, coconut, raisins, yoghurt
stuffed into a home-made naan bread...

there's this funny saying:
  about as entertaining as watching paint dry...
let me tell you something different though:
i've never seen anything more entertaining
than watching home-made dough grow -
in a bowl, in a sink filled with hot water,
  with some cling-film covering the bowl...
i could look at that blob for ages...
   how at first the cling-film is sunken -
and once the yeast do their bit: it seems to almost
want to pop!

    yet there's a conclusive remark to be made...
indian food?
    (sniffing sound of a dog) -
  your neighbours can smell you cooking
something...
                           it's that ****** potent -
takes me back to days spent in a chemistry lab...
how you can have this microcosmos of
change with, but: one dish...
                          that's why a student of
chemistry will rare discuss the pop-culture
adherents of either biological ref. or physics ref.:
we move on... sometimes we **** in
accidently, like stepping on someone's foot
  in a crowded place...
                    opinions entertained for an hour,
esp. when espressed drinking...
                this: this is the real thing going on -
a typical english august with glum skies
and a thunder-storm...
       and then in late afternoon: an indian evening
as if, it really was summer;
  but it ain't cos then it starts ******* once
again by 10p.m.

Punch me, roll me, throw me up
Stuff me in a pan or shove me in a cup
Put some oil and massage me well
Till am all arouse with my swell
If you tired, put a cloth on me
Don't leave me naked for others to see
Come back soon and satisfy my needs
Others are waiting for their feeds
Oh Yes!!...punch me! punch me again
Pull me apart
Do it from the start
Roll me smooth
Make me feel good
Now you've ignited the flame
Put me up, so I can play my game
Toss me over and grease in the same
Oil me, flavour me
Now let me cool, get off me
Dress me up for others to see
While you let them drool to taste me...



















Yours sincerely,
Roti, Paratha, Naan
(Indian flat breads)


©sim

I took this ******* a date to the Purple Pakora,
Lil did I know how much this girl would order,
I met her on tinder-loo, she orderd a vinderloo madras and a korma
What the actual tandoori duck ??  how many animals does this ***** wanna slaughter?  
  
I'm already thinking **** how much they gonna charge me,  
When she puts  an order in for another 12 oinion bhaji  

I could stop what was going on,  
Next thing I know she wants a side order of poppadom with extra ******* yogurt on  

Then she looks me in the eye an says " shall we get a starter coz I absolutely love a chiken tika masala  

Holy ****,,,,, ****,,,, god dam!!!  
Now to wants to try each different  flavor of naan

10 cocktails that didn't even touch the ******* coaster,
Then she goes " I'm on a diet. So I'll just have 1 vegetable samosa
  
Burn a hole in my pocket the size of the equator,  
And she didn't forget to tell me to tip the ****** waiter

After we left this girl wants to party
She goes I'll come with you if you get some charlie

All I got to eat was her sunbed barbecued punnani,  and that ******* tasted like a gone off seafood biriani,,

BEWARE!!!!

because, what is the summation?
certainly not politics,
and certainly now, apparent,
guide toward journalism...

   what is the summation?

as honest as i might be i say:
why would you concern
yourself with prostitution,
given that you have your **** boyfriends
running the show?
all the prostitutes in england
are romanian anyway:
  why give a toss as to whether i kiss
of **** them?!

see: memory is always fleeting,
it's the only coincidence of
exercising mortality...
         memory is a cannibalism,
although stressed for no
purpose, other than the per se of:
becoming "educated"...
     i liked being schooled,
but the problem is...
           what doesn't require
a managed fathomability...
less complex, like a caged tiger...
i would pet a caged tiger,
just like i sometimes imagine
myself wrestling with
a ravenous rottweiler...

         love the smile...
             and the tooth sheen...
     just want to kiss that poor
******* to sleep,
         it's like mad barks
to later: mad said so...
                  my pwetty pwetty pooch...
haaaaaaaaaar...
you see that madness in its eyes,
and it's showing its teeth
as if it's sharpening them...
         tongue in place for a sack
of testicles...
    or a bad hair day... feverish...
bleach blonde...
       there comes a day when you...
actually want to bite the dog's
***** off...
    to get to grip with his
supposed rabies....
   well:       thank **** ****** diseases
are not transmitted via
saliva...
                 kissing a prozzie would
be bad enough, but not getting
a ******* while at it?
          ****.... the miracle of las
        vegas and: a hope for amnesia...

i'll admit,
   memory is prime confession
of mortality,
         i hate to part with it,
yet i have to, pass it off on the "sly"...
   i die three death:
              the death of forgetting,
the death accomplished by sleep,
and the death, that's a gravestone...

dangling a crucifix is about
as much of a hard-on as...
              a digestive biscuit dipped
into 5p.m. tea...
                  a serenade coming from
a castrato...
            pointless as: **** all could
                     ever, but nonetheless, is.

i still want to be awake in a post scriptum
of death taking a glance at me,
wrestling a rottweiler...
**** the 72 virgins, there's no fun in
that enterprise....
                  i can almost venture
into feeling the canine saliva mingling
with mine, and the teeth gnashing
against each other, reaching pinnacle
with exchanged nervous systems
attributed to the eyes...

    can i just reiterate the poor choice
of reward, with the 72 virgins?
    pagans sought more refined rewards
for the dead in their "backwardness"...
thank **** the jews
      only seek an immediacy to pass:
from living, unto the dead...
              a p.s. of:
a book that becomes a brick...
                       less an agitating poetic
paragraph...

             i actually woke up with
an auditory hallucination, of course due
to a lack of visual artefacts:
              uchyl -
                      gently open the door...
as i did, half awake half dreaming...
      i still want to die and be woken
with a wrestling-match with a rabie-infused
rottweiler...

                    i can't stomach
           the impetus for 72-tight-*****...
it's like spotting a walrus protecting
                                                           a harem...
unless you ****** a ******,
you might know of a certain type of
gesticulation,
           imitating scalpel using a phallus...
tender excess:
                      no other way to call it...

why would the "gain" of
       72 niqab fores be made the alternative
disneyland?
           apparently m.g.m.
   is not translated into...
what's apparently missing:
             cutting the genital niqab open...
way past the fore-skin,
i mean: you ever ****** a ******?

      it's not like a man recounting his
first *******...
               and 72 of them?!
        either mad, or Muslim!
can't see past the sado-masochism
of exaggerate puritanism;
i could see 72 romanian prostitutes,
no problem...
          
           but what reward is there,
when there isn't, any?
             females are too subjective,
in terms of their "lack" of genitals...
       just give me a chance to wrestle
with a rottweiler infused with
rabies, to chance a french "kiss" against
his canines...
              and you can keep
    your terrorists and attaché naan bread
bits, of, finicky,
for whatever consensus you're
                                           aiming for;

because that part of the guarantee?
is, not, my, concern.

modern girls make it so easy... here i am telling her..
listen, i made some mango curry...
it's almost like a korma... i did use a korma paste...
but i added some extra coriander and cumin powder,
bay leaves, 4 cardamom pods (green)
cloves, chilly powder...  turmeric...
the problem with me is, that... when i cook?
i'm never able to cook for one person...
i always cook too much...
turkey steaks diced, 3 capsicums...
         hell, i even looked her up on social media...
no chance in hell exposing her to my content...
only a few minutes ago we were talking about
Catholicism... she's apparently a Catholic?
me? did i give enough to that ******* bureaucracy?
i live in a protestant country, England is,
a protestant nation, isn't it?
while would i continue being a Catholic?
i was forced into a baptism given a Hebrew name
given a Germanic name for seconds...
well, sure... i sometimes wish i were Confirmed...
why? well... legally... i could therefore change
my baptismal name... given my second
name is Germanic... i'd follow up on it...
why would i choose Isaiah? i'd go for something
alone the lines of... Reinhardt... better...
Lothar... after that famous German football defender...
my idol, from when i was 4...
so i tells her... i made this mango curry...
and i bought these stone-baked naan breads...
yummy stuff... but she's like: a coy deer-lady...
i tell her: well, technically i'm not going to be allowed
a Church wedding: not that she had any plans...
her wedding dress should be red: rather than white...
and i was even planning to drink less tonight
and go out of my way to deliver her this excess
of curry... then i tell her: but i lied...
i could eat a curry 7 days a week... i just made more
because: i always make more...
now what is she going to feed poor little
Freddy? some quickie **** load of ******* argh!
**** it, i'm drinking till i drop...
i'll wake up tomorrow and iron my trousers...
there are these creases emerging from excess use
that are unbecoming...
   the shirt is already ironed...
   the shoes are already polished...
i was so willing to make an effort...
   face-palm...
reading about the Gnostic heretics aged 14 deciding
not to be confirmed: not enough?
well yeah... i made my mind up...
i don't know how the Qabbalah found me...
because sure as **** i wasn't looking for it...
not impressive enough:
still lives with his parents, has a bicycle rather than
a car... wow!
i don't know why i still live with my parents...
not enough money, sure...
or maybe... i didn't have a dad from the age of 4
through to 8... i didn't have a mother from the age
of 6 through to 8...
migration... either a brain-drain or a labour shortage
after the collapse of the Soviet Union...
it's irreparable damage...
   when i arrived at the Victoria coach station
in 1994... 1994... when England was moving to
her height of cool... my mother implored me to run
up to my father and hug him...
i was actually hugging a stranger... i remember
all those reservations of him busting his *** on
construction sites... my "father" and my "mother"
were my mother's parents...
the grandfather who worked in metallurgy...
drank away a Mercedes-Benz... sure...
he was also great... we went cycling, mushroom picking...
we walked the dogs... i climbed trees while
the dogs barked after me, we went fishing...
but he was also a fiendish drunk...
me? i'm a drunk too... but at least i have writing
to keep me in check... the minute i loose the plot
i will have already have known...
because i see it before me...
in the meantime: i'm not paying rent to some Pakistani
landlord... i've already applied
for a council flat... REJECTED...
i'm not a single mother, am i? do i ******* look
like a single mother? what's the other option?
become a custodian under the authority of the parents...
cook, clean the house... keep the garden and
the driveway tidy...
while at the same time... in the back of my mind...
well... they're not going to be around forever...
plus my uncle is childless...
it's not like he's going to leave his assets
to charity... plus... some minor details about what
i actually own... books from the height of the Victorian
era... etc.,
i don't think i need to win the lottery...
sure, i'm currently working as a steward at events...
i have yet to face abuse...
mostly smiles, handshakes, people stroking my beard
like it might be a good charm
of a ******* leprechaun...
     so most say that writing is not work...
reading philosophy is not work...
great... well thank **** that my 20s are a blur...
since i did just that...
i invested in... oh... you know... i stopped counting
how many poo'ems i wrote after i hit the 10K mark...
if i'm not going to keep up...
then no one is going to keep up...
unless they're some variation of a sacrificial lamb
that feeds off my output...
but girls are making it so easy these days...
you can invest so much effort into them...
and bang! outright delay, rejection, dwarf your efforts
little man... and i'm like... oh thank god for that...
that means i can drink more tonight and wake
up later in the day before i ******* for a shift
at Fulham... i even asked my supervisor...
can i be closest to the Millwall fans?
                  i mean: long gone are the days when
someone like a Charles Bukowski,
Ted Hughes... hell... even the likes
of a Charles Olson or a John Berryman
could have polyamorous relationships...
because they were, ahem: poets...
   i'm strapped to listening to: ******* monk music...
and to be honest? i'm sort of glad...
i'm thinking about euthanasia like i'm thinking
about breakfast...
  put the poor sod out... let the world spin out of
control... i'm all for it...
fine, fine, fine... and i write these words without
any spite... it might come across as such...
but... girls have made it so much easier
to live my life... the way i want to live it...
    solo...
                          being the only child...
i had animals for brothers and sisters...
it's good for a child to be raised alongside dogs...
but once they progress to later stages in life...
cats... those bonsai tigers can really teach
you a thing or two about how to cope with rejection...
even though my maine ***** have the knack of
imitating dogs... meow after ******* meow:
what?! what?! what do you want?!
you've been let out to wander the garden!
i've given you food! i've cleaned the house,
i watered the plants! you're sleeping in my bed...
head-**** for a greeting... sniff of the head...
what?! with a cat like that...
children? no thank you... i'd go mental...
only today i woke up with a bloated hand...
that ******* psychotic ***** of a cat bit into me so hard
and scratched me so hard that i'm....
sort of unable to move my ring and pinky fingers...
and what did i do? torture her?
no... she did a ****-poor job at taking a ****...
so i had to wash her...
i mean: when a meow is not a meow
but Cerberus' bark from hell... i stood beside myself
trying to think: what, the, ****, is this?!
but today, when i was giving her food...
she did the figure of 8... tail up...
all nice, all polite... purring... oh ******* psychotic *****...
i'll give you the food, but look at my arm!
i can't move two of my fingers from
the bite you invested yourself in,
and the scratch... ******* vampire...
   you're going to have another name ascribed to you...
Lizzy Báthory... hold on...
you're not an incarnation of her?
huh?!
                             sure, Madonna can sing a song
like... don't tell me...
then a boy will come along... NO RPOBLEM!
how many famous bachelors have there been
throughout time? i lost count...
i'd hate to become my father...
earning too much in order for a woman
to end up spending....
happy, happy... ah just happy!

          now merge that Madonna video
don't tell me with Dua Lipa's - love again...
the cowboy theme... but in the later instance
a sample of white town's - not your woman...
and, all, that, clown, make-up...

                             priceless!

again: what's a dating app?

                   ha ha... "culturally claustrophobic"...
no... just really out of touch with "it"... cousin it....

girls are making it so much easier to bail out,
*******, bicycle... get a whiff of the wind...
get lost in spontaneous weather patterns...
**** me, this other article i wa reading...
a celibate woman in her 20s goes back on
dating aged in her 30s...
why?
    she gets matched... matched...
gets ghosted... and she is this... ivory skinned
red head...
  rye-i-ight...
             you scratch your head and then
pretend to think... tick... tock... tick...
tock...            wow... there's a clock on the wall...
i'm just going to head off to
the Turkish barbers for a trim of the beard
since... my moustache is getting the best of me....
i don't like swiping left to right
on my moustache after having a sip of coffee:
with the foam...

  no...

   but girls have made it so painfully obvious...
they're waiting for a Genghis Khan...
some ***** donor clinic superstar...
hey... my hands are up in the air...
              i'm not some grand father of humanity...
be free! do what you want to do!
   me?
oh me me me... i'm interested in
the upcoming branch of Islam that's yet to be
conceptualized...
from the Turkic branch.... i believe
the Turks are met with the sort of European
availability of: exchange of ideas that could splinter
Islam beyond merely the initial schism of
Sunni versus the Shia... after all...
in the latter camp... the Persians...

         i am gagging... for a "trinity" in Islam...
the Turks would be on the forefront..
they're the most European...
after all... you can't find a better barber outside of Istambul!

i'm backing a Turkish heresy that might arrive...
there's plenty... to begin with...
oh forget the Pakistanis...
        i have: you ought to have done so
a year prior...
     if i'm wrong... then i'm wrong... outright...
but... the barber skills? of the Turks...
i'm left... admiring... lacklustre....
you what? did i just have my beard
trimmed?! you sure i did't have my eyes closed
getting some *******?

oh, right... so, i wasn't?!

                 i anticipate a... third branch of Islam...
one that counters the intricacies of
the Sunni vs. the Shia narrative...
i guess the Turks might be like...
well... too many Saudi ******* **** boys running
around... man up or get eaten up!

Little pieces of hope
In a world of vast despair
Small steps only
Highwater Everywhere

She's gentle, kind, caring
A diamond in the rough
Jesus wasn't humble
No, no. He was tough.

America is Ignorance
But I like Johnny Cash
Bodies in the furnace
Humans turned to ash

Stockholm was so pretty
Scifi Gamla Stan
Charming Uppsala Cathedral
A little garlic naan

                         Tak

Indian girls
... just wanna eat Naan

on my way back from a shift at the London Stadium:
chim-chimeney chim-chim chimey...
we're the boys in claret and blue...
the cockney boys... resounded the drunken football
chants... walking among these "boys":
i felt inclined to find myself with some camaraderie...
my god... the atmosphere on the event...
West Ham vs. Seville... 1 - nil in the 90 minutes...
everyone working the steward shift was sort of
gagging: please no penalties...
boys... just finish it off in extra time...
and boy... they delivered...
   what was supposed to be a 10:30pm: ******* home
became a: 11:15pm: ******* home...
my stomach shrank to a size of a walnut...
you eat a pasty at, say... 2pm...
             then it's all Ramadam downhill from there on in...
i was gagging for a chicken burger once i reached
Romford... but the queue! the ******* queue in
the chicken shop... and at the bus stop i read:
3 minutes until the one-oh-three arrives...
well... it's coming way past 12am... i'm not going to
wait an extra 20 minutes... just so i can buy a chicken
burger / wrap / five spicy chicken wings and a dabble
in chips... plus... a 7 hour shift... 1.5h to get to the venue...
1.5h to get back... my stomach... shrunk to the size
of a walnut... i'm going to get a stomach ache if i eat
too much... there's some pita bread: let's pretend they're
naan bread... and some leftover curry...
peanut butter curry... what do i find in the leftovers?
one piece of chicken... a cherry tomato...
i cut the pita bread in half... i'll drink more...
plenty of that bubblegum bourbon where it came from...
i don't get it though...
Bukowski and the drudgery of work...
compared to studying chemistry...
compared to roofing... this... "job"... is a ****-take...
it insults my intelligence...
then again: i have this avenue to mind...
i don't care... i'm sticking around for as long as it takes
to get good references...
always on time... always well dressed...
mindful of coworkers...
      blah blah... blah...
                  even today... my god... the atmosphere was
great... i had... zilch worth of worry
about pitch-"invaders"...
        i have this one spot... gate 139...
   three pundits that took a liking to me...
everytime they see me... i greeted with a thirst for joviality...
i don't seem to recognise / see any other stewards
getting hugs... Chris... upon leaving he says
to me: this stand is so much different with your
around... you what? yeah... you come round
to all the other stewards... asking how they're doing...
by simply kneeling down beside them...
you make them feel important...
but they are...
              hugs, high fives... people have been
starved when it comes to physical contact...
i can... see it... last time around i was given leftovers
of gummy bears... gelatin sweets...
i'll get to know the other pundits names...
Chris is already covered...
   but like i explained to this chubby cutie...
i have a weak-spot for gelatin sweets...
rubber-dummies... you can hide the chocolate...
i'm not after that...
but people want to hug... so... i hug...
         and if i really do care about my coworkers...
then? i care about my coworkers...
today was a bit of mash-up...
   i was sharing the position of break-duty guy with
a Brendan... misinformation...
if i did the role alone... i would have covered everyone...
like this one girl...
now... i'm not the prettiest "thing" alive...
but... you sort of sport subtle cues...
you give a recipe for a banana loaf to a supervisor
that's a woman... you're friends with her mother...
she sends you photographs of her: hey presto...
now she appears...
   with freshly washed hair... mascara...
and lipstick...
this other girl? i knew she was pretty...
the first two times i saw her?
she was donning fake eye-lashes...
long enough to compete with nails of black girls...
mixed-race... does that bother me?
oh **** no... i like an ethnic cocktail...
rabbit **** for a deer ****... sizes counter matter...
today? all her fake eyelashes were gone...
sure... she slapped on some extra make-up...
dyed her hair... how did she position herself?
sort of... right... next to me...
it's so cute... not looking when "blinking"...
across the horizon... to find a girl looking at you...
it's cute... when a girl looks at you
not looking at her...
       is she ******* telepathic or something?
last time i saw her i was thinking:
you'd look really pretty without those fake eyelashes...
i mean: there are eyebrows...
and there are fake eyelashes...
i can't see the iris of your eyes! let alone the sclera!
how pretty she looked...
such a shy 5ft7 number...
         i almost wanted to crumble a cookie before
her eyes and tell her: cutie-pie...
cute... cute.... cute... i want you to become
my BAMBINO...
on the way back i figured... well... this gig is going
to die a sad little death... not before i get my references
will i get an SIA licence to become a security guard...
i'm thinking... teaching...
but these four friends were talking on the train...
i never had friends to go to football matches together...
i should mind... eh...
there are other pleasures in life...
   hmm... le wagon coding bootcamps...
full-time / part-time courses end in April 2022...
maybe... a digital nomad?  
coding... teaching... but at the same time i'm looking
at this petite... mixed race... critter of a beauty...
she dyes her her... relinquishes those ugly
fake... stick on eye-lashes... now her body matches
up to her: ever more so petite face...
what a tender, pretty sight...
              i like a bit of a "permanent" sun-tan...
   like any blue-blooded whitey...
   id love some DNA invigoration... like any Windsor
might... i'm looking at her...
Wojciech Kilar's Dracula: the Beginning
is playing in the back of my mind...
while i think about... breaking her... performing
******* *** on her...
              with a body comparison: ratio...
i would break, her...
      thank god she's not wearing those fake eye-lashes...
now i can see her eyes...
i can also concentrate on her eyebrows...
and all the other features of her face...
some Asian... oriental guy kept chatting her up...
two semi-toddler twins ran down to her gate
"inquiring"... i just watched as her face glowed
in the artifact of the potential of being a mother...
i get those two... interludes...
frustrated glimpses into being a father...
   i get them...
    they're rather spontaneous...
they last for about... 5 hours at a time...
the day? i rarely have a choice...
                                    but i sometimes
come to the conclusion:
i made bad choices...
                 then again: was anything, counterproductive?
was there something, "spectacular"
awaiting me? i don't think there ever was...
so... what loss?!
i have this whole Dracula mythology in place...

i feed off the shadows...
the night... the forest... the moon...
in Deutsche...
  
       ich füttern aus die schatten,
die nacht.... der wald...
   der mond...

She is a whale swimming away from her habitat, finding a new rest place
The crumpled paper scrunched in her hand, treasured more than family
The birth certificate spoke to her, pulled her in further
She belonged here, in this place
Her mysterious voice didn’t sound the same
Our music playing in the background wasn’t familiar to her ears
Her body did not move to the beat anymore
The usual smell of naan didn’t bring her to me
The brown pastry filled with meat replaced the welcoming yellow curry
The exciting pops in her mouth no longer excited her
She was the braised chicken in her bowl, flapping away
Her eyes darker than dirt no longer shone brightly
She was like the man with the red cape, flying away quicker everyday
Some days near and some days far
Where are you?

The nonsense remarks our fathers tell us, for example:
We are all beautiful inside and we must get a
good education. Well, for the most part, they are right.
But my father also    mocks   the sound of
my   tears   and    when I
eat      my mother  strikes my hand  as I
grab for   a piece of naan   or something
like, you can imagine.    I feel weak at
times despite the   calories,
like a shriveled berry.
Sometimes,  I call a boy
when my eyes have dried  so as to not disrupt
a balance. I am sure he may feel
lonely at times, but he runs and
absorbs himself in his sciences
and religious texts.
Me?      I am a rat girl who digs
old things from their hideouts in my room.    My old
stories and fantasies
of a prince who reads my hidden letters,
finds them first actually,
instead of my brown hand          pulling          his ear          toward
me.  Me, saying softly:
look
inside
here.

The Buddha's immense compassion
For all sentient beings
Reclining in Ayutthaya
Bluejays too can sing

Thai yellow curry
Indian garlic naan
San Francisco Zen
Scifi Gamla Stan

The beauty of her hair
The comfort of her face
Exoplanets. Exomoons.
Aliens in Space?

              The Chase!